The Book of Love
by Nyx Underwood
Summary: Every word written about them is about war. But their story was always about love. Lily/James, selectively AU.


_The Book Of Love_

**A Lily and James Fanfic**

**[SUMMARY: **Every word written about them was about war. But their story was always about love. Lily/James, selectively AU.**]**

A/N: I believe I started this in high school – probably around 2003 – so, I decided to polish it a bit and post it. A bit of a break from my _Gossip Girl _fics.

*

**Chapter One**: Your Dream, and Nothing More

_And now you're mine. Rest with your dream in my dream._

_Love and pain and work should all sleep, now._

_The night turns on its invisible wheels,_

_And you are pure beside me as a sleeping amber._

_No one else, Love, will sleep in my dreams. You will go,_

_We will go together, over the waters of time._

_No one else will travel through the shadows with me,_

_Only you, evergreen, ever sun, ever moon._

_Your hands have already opened their delicate fists_

_And let their soft drifting signs drop away; your eyes closed like two grey_

_Wings, and I move_

_After, following the folding water you carry, that carries _

_me away. The night, the world, the wind spin out their destiny._

_Without you, I am your dream, only that, and that is all._

**- Pablo Neruda, **"**Sonnet LXXXI"**

*

_**Two Months Earlier:**_

Two figures stood in the pounding rain on the platform of the only train station in Godric's Hollow.

The taller of the two was dripping wet and struggling with glasses that always seemed to fog when it was muggy or wet. Even through the sleet and under the cover of the dark night sky, his face seemed to stand out in stark relief from the world around it. His frown was set so heavily on his young face that it would have required more energy than he could muster to smile.

You wouldn't have known it from looking at him, but in some circles, the bedraggled boy was considered to be rather a big deal; standing at a train station in the rain, he was no one in particular. If the frown hadn't been weighing so heavily across his features, he may have laughed; James Potter – the heir to the Potter fortune, well-liked Hogwarts student, Quidditch Captain, to boot - couldn't even figure out how to read a train timetable.

He clutched a smaller figure tightly against his chest. She could not have been more than thirteen years old – and in fact she was just that. Her brother was fifteen, then. She was waif-like, covered in water, blue eyes and thick book that she couldn't bear to leave behind, she held onto his arm. Although she hadn't entirely forgiven him for the harsh words he'd spat at her when she'd stumbled on their garden path, tripping over some exposed root. And she'd stamped her foot at the injustice of it – _he was a bully, and it was raining and couldn't he light his wand?_ And he's shouted at her – he'd gone too far – and her eyes were still red.

She hadn't entirely forgiven him, but the night was cold and dark and his warmth was welcome.

The train rumbled to a halt, the tracks protesting all the way.

_Is there anything in the world sadder than a train standing in the rain?_ James remembered reading that somewhere – and whenever he saw the Hogwarts Express steaming into Kings Cross station, he had found himself rolling his eyes at the muggle author's negativity. Until tonight, he had never seen the furtiveness of a train ambling unwillingly towards a dark platform.

James glanced down at the shivering figure he held against his chest. "We're going to be okay."

Then he walked his unwilling little sister into the graffiti-covered carriage. She stumbled over her feet again, but this time he didn't yell. He just pulled her up by the hand and said a gentle, "Come on, Isabelle."

"James – I dropped _Little Women_…"

The book had fallen between train and platform, into the maw of darkness. That look on her face. He felt a jolt of something in his chest. How could he help it? He performed a tiny, cheat of a spell to summon it back to her hand. She clutched his hand. He was forgiven.

(From the instant he cast that spell, they were coming.)

The pair took a seat and Isabelle fell asleep on the torn plastic chair. James stared blankly out the window into the sheets of merciless rain that covered the dark paddocks and heaths that surrounded his town: Godric's Hollow. A tiny dot on a Muggle map. An important site in wizard history. He wondered, briefly, whether he'd get in trouble for summoning that damn book – but as he looked down at Isabelle's dosing head, her long dark lashes – her features so similar to his, he decided that he didn't particularly care.

She cradled "that damn book" in her arms, as another kid might a fluffy animal. He looked at his exhausted hands. All he held was a wand. And because of these tiny differences: a wand or a book, a tiny dot or a large star on a map. Because of this, all this suffering –

But, it didn't do to think about things like that. He had a job to do.

He was still slightly bewildered at how his life had changed in the last hour – though of course the hints of it could be found in the preceding days, weeks, over a year. Or maybe it was part of a larger puzzle. Still, it bewildered him.

James Potter. Whose father, Harold, was so powerful, whose position was so assured. His mother, who had so much talent and so many friends. There was not a room in the wizard world that was not open to the Potters. The family had a line that could be traced back to Godric Gryffindor. There were relations of the highest order of wizarding society – in Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Germany, and even some crazy wizard tsar in Russia, who, legend had it, often required his servants never to show their backs to him, and to perform scenes from HMS Pinafore every evening before bed. Esteemed company.

There was nothing that James Potter had done in his five years at Hogwarts that did not fit perfectly with the image most had of his family. Prefect, Quidditch Captain, brilliant student, popular with his classmates, best friends with Sirius Black. And if he had the unfortunate tendency to be a little _too_ prone to trouble, and if his jokes were occasionally a _little_ bit cruel, and even if he was friendly with that _Lupin _boy – well, it was the usual boyhood stuff; he would certainly grow out of it. And by all accounts, he was, on the whole, a pretty top bloke to his peers, and a fine young man to his professors.

No. James wasn't the problem.

The problem was a snoozing, beautiful Squib, who was clutching a sodden book and who was too smart for her own good.

A _Squib_ in the _Potter_ line.

Most people blamed the mother – she could trace wizard ancestors for only two generations, and then there were some questionable relations in Ireland, and someone about five generations back had been an _innkeeper_. No one could fault her, they were quick to say. Emily Potter was a talented witch: Head Girl in her time. But, some things just come down to blood.

James heard these things the way we all do – a whisper that reaches our ears from a third-hand source, quick to condemn the very things they spread, then disappearing like vapour. He noted that no one said anything directly to him – no one would have dared, as he held court in the Great Hall, or in the Gryffindor common room. Nor when his father entered the Ministry or Gringotts would any hesitate to open a door for him. And when he delivered a speech in the Wizengamot, old men who stood astride the wizarding world as kings would lean forward and take note.

That didn't stop the whispers though. And in his wildest dreams – in those haunted moments late at night when we are certain that the dark forces of the world must exist and are in fact heading towards us right now – in Harold Potter's _wildest_ dreams, he did imagine that in the dark of night things that seemed impossible during the day could be taken care of. And he feared for his daughter. Because, like all men with a distinguished public career, he had enemies. And he had always been a little too liberal. A little too prone to moderation. Especially for a soldier in a time when phrases like "_you're either with us…or - _" were being thrown about.

How often had James walked into his father's study to see him, glasses perched on the edge of his nose, pulling long silver strands of memory out of his temple into a heaving Pensieve by the light of a roaring fire, surrounded by leather books.

"What are you doing, Dad?"

"Trying to make sense of it" or "looking for the pattern in it" or "figuring out the next step", would be the answer.

And in James' most selfish moments, a tiny voice wondered why his dad couldn't just fit _in_–

But, of course, these thoughts were never allowed to form.

James wasn't sure what made him look up. The train was stopping. That must be it. And a particularly loud burst of thunder. The doors screeched open. The lights dimmed and then went out.

James noticed too late that they there wasn't a train station in sight.

He didn't even try to wake her. He just scooped Isabelle up and ran towards the stairs. If he could get to an open field he might have a hope. He and Sirius had fooled around with a book about apparition – and for a second he had almost had it. But not with Isabelle. It was hard enough to apparate with a magical person. All he needed was an open space – then he could fight.

A figure was standing at the top of the stairs.

He was broad-shouldered, too tall for the low ceilings of the carriage. James backed away, Isabelle's fingers were digging into his neck. He tripped over as he struggled to turn around.

There was another man standing at the other stairwell.

Trapped, then.

He unceremoniously threw his sister on the chair and gestured for her to get under the seat. The two masked men walked down the stairs, enjoying it, taking each step slowly, and letting the terror of each echoing footstep wash over their young victims.

"What do you want?" James had always had the skill of sounding more resolute than he was.

The younger one spoke. His voice was gruff – he was putting it on. James realized that the masked boy couldn't be much older than him. James probably knew him at Hogwarts.

"We're here for the Squib."

"There's no Squib here," James said, trying to divide his attention between both the advancing figures.

"Your sister, mate," the taller one said. "Hand her over."

The friendly "mate" not withstanding, both had their wands drawn.

"No, I don't think I will, thanks, _mate_."

The shorter one paused, twirling his wand. A strand of long blonde hair was exposed, fallen free from its hiding place, but it escaped James' notice. If James had noticed, he may have realized that a sadistic bastard with similar hair had beaten the stuffing out of him in first year, when he was caught outside his dorm one evening. When the masked boy spoke, there was a slow deliberate manner about him; he chose his words, but they never seemed to fit. "We take no pleasure in – _dealing with_ – another Pureblood. But, if that's what it takes to _dispatch_ the little one. Then, we'll just have to put that aside and decide this like gentlemen, won't we?"

James rolled his eyes – and the little shaking boy that cowered inside of him wondered at his own nerve – and held his wand at the ready. "Will it be pistols at dawn, or fisticuffs, then chap? Don't stand around here talking about what _gentlemen_ do when you're talking about a little girl - "

"_Crucio_."

It was blinding, coursing, burning pain. And it seemed never to end. James prayed that he would just die – just to make it stop. He refused to scream, though. He bit the tip of his tongue clear off in his defiant attempt not to give this little bastard the satisfaction of hearing the scream that was threatening to rupture his throat. And when it finally ended, the searing spots before his eyes meant he couldn't see Isabelle, who, with tears streaming, had crawled out to touch her brother. He didn't see anything really.

But he heard the words.

"_Avada Kedavra_."

Then the other voice: "_Hey_. You shouldn't have done that, mate. You were just meant to…"

"It's done, now. Let's get the hell out of here."

And then he heard the swirl of robes, and the train started up again – shuddering slightly, as if shaking off the memory of a nightmare.

This isn't happening.

James, his mouth full of blood, clutched the little body – eyes vacant now. Blue chips of ice staring at the ground.

_No. No. No._

No matter how he shook her, how he clutched her, how he sobbed, unable to form words with his bleeding tongue. How could he go home now? How could he tell his parents what he had let happen? The desire to run away was almost irresistible. Even as the Enforcers apparated into the carriage – cursing their lateness. Cursing the dark wizards who would do such a thing – cursing the times, the young, the forces none could understand.

A hand on his shoulder. One of his father's Enforcer friends – too late. He had to be pulled away from his sister. He had always been fond of James. He used to ask all about his shenanigans at Hogwarts, curling his dark moustache around one of his fingers and chuckling over the old days. Now, words could not quite form in his mouth as he stared at the lad in front of him, whose mouth was bleeding so heavily. He wanted to say he was sorry for his loss. But, he had never learnt how to say that to a young man. So he said this instead:

"Chin up, come on, lad. Be a man."

James felt ashamed of himself. The tears stopped immediately. He squared his shoulders, and the Enforcer felt guilty for being tongue-tied and not picking the right words. They zipped up the little body in the too-large bag. The boy didn't even grimace when his father broke down over his daughter's body, as his mother screamed hysterically and had to be put under magical sedation. And when he walked into his father's study to see him burning his various articles – this one, a vindication of the rights of half-breeds, this one in defence of muggleborns at Hogwarts, and on and on – he said nothing, but put out the fire and pulled the parchment back out of the fireplace. And as the grown man clutched him around the neck – legs giving out with grief – he just let his father cry. When his mother didn't get out of bed, he gave the nervous House Elves their instructions (despite his father's views on the primacy of liberty, he displayed a typical myopia when it came to House Elves and their rights – the product of 10 generations of House Elf ownership). He didn't cry again – even at Belle's funeral.

But he didn't forget.

*

_**Two Months Later:**_

A train journey of another sort. The last time he had seen his friends: riding the Hogwarts Express homeward – half excited to be alone for a while, and half regretful that the fun school year was over. The separation from his friends never usually lasted that long. But, with all that had happened in the Potter family, things were a lot less jubilant than usual.

It wasn't until the end of that horrible holiday between fifth and sixth year that James saw his friends again. This was an unusual event; James parents usually had a liberal open-door policy when it came to their children's friends (and their own). Nothing used to make them happier than having the house full to the brim – and the festival atmosphere was contagious. Anyone lucky enough to be invited to the beautiful stone house - Potter Manor – left convinced that the Potters had it right; a charmed life, people often called it. Harold would wear his old robes with the shiny pointed shoes and the jaunty hat, and he would play tunes from the WWN with enough skill to lead some people to suggest that he should have left public life altogether and taken up a career on the stage. When James and his father played a duet on that huge piano, the other adults in the room would share indulgent smiles – like father, like son. Showmen.

Isabelle was always too shy for this sort of exhibitionism. The memory drew attention to the Isabelle-shaped hole in James' chest.

And now, Potter Manor was a quiet place. His father had all but locked himself in his study, and the few times he emerged he was muttering slightly under his breath, writing furiously on scraps of parchment. For his part, James read only muggle books, the books his precocious sister had read for hours on end. He didn't read the paper, didn't take an interest in what his father was working on so intently, and took breaks only to knock on the door of his mother's bedroom to ask if she needed anything.

In the self-imposed isolation of this holiday, James had morosely enjoyed the ease with which he cut off his social life – where he had once been the sparkling epicentre of holiday socialising for many of the brightest young things of Hogwarts, he suddenly quite simply, wasn't. Even Sirius had empathy enough to leave James alone – although he'd sent several out-of-character, heartfelt owls, and had stood next to his friend at Isabelle's funeral (even shedding a few gruff tears).

But, it seemed that today, enough was enough.

Sirius never knocked on the front door. He usually let himself in, and tonight was no exception.

James walked into his bedroom to find his best friend lying on his bed, dressed in his Wandmaster's robes, with the little embroidered symbol: two wands crossed, on his lapel. Over this, Sirius wore the leather jacked he had brought at a second-hand muggle store, and wore constantly, half because it drove his mother crazy, and half because, as Sirius always said, it made him look like a dish of steaming hot sex. Remus always said that it made him look like a dish of steaming hot dragon dung. For that, Remus usually received a solid elbow to the back of the head.

Most of the female population of Hogwarts tended to agree with Sirius' assessment.

Sirius had also recently taken to wearing two short, white gloves and large combat boots, which James noted were currently spreading their filth all over his bed. To complete the look, Sirius was reading a paper – totally nonchalant, even though he had just committed the felony of breaking and entering.

"What are you doing here, Padfoot?"

The nickname still felt new in James' – Prongs' – mouth. Sirius raised his eyebrow, looking pointedly at James' pyjama pants.

"Honey – what have I told you about prettying yourself up before I get home from work? You just shouldn't go to the trouble. All it makes me want to do is tear that little dress right back off."

James rolled his eyes and slumped in his desk chair. "Seriously, what are you doing here?"

Sirius couldn't hide the look of concern on his face. "When was the last time you got dressed and saw sunlight?"

"Its night-time," he replied in a monotone.

Sirius made a dismissive gesture, folding his paper. "I'm serious - "

"Yes, Sirius Black," James attempted a joke weakly.

It was Sirius' turn to roll his eyes. "Because that joke _never_ gets old. Come on, it's been approximately forever since we went out on the town. Besides, I already lied to my mum – it'd be a waste not to run the risk of exposure."

"Because danger is your middle name, right?"

Sirius seemed cheered that he was getting into the right spirit. "That's right. Come on, Hermit Boy, we're going out. Also," a wicked grin broke out across Sirius' face, "you haven't ridden my new bike yet."

"And as a result, still have full use of my limbs," James muttered, but he stood up as Sirius rifled through his closet to pull out James' Wandmaster robes – exactly like his in every way.

There was just no refusing him.

*

Lily Evans was, quite simply, screwed.

She had no earthly idea what one wore to the Wandmasters' Club (one of the oldest wizarding clubs in London), and indeed what one did, there. But, Amelia assured her that this particular party was _not_ optional. Anyone who was anyone was going to be there – it was as simple as that.

After a day of working at her father's newspaper, there was nothing Lily felt like more than to curl up with a cup of tea and a biscuit, and to finish reading _The Beautiful and the Damned_. But Amelia was an extremely imperious young woman – with her short dark brown hair and expressive face, she quite simply did not brook refusal. Lily felt slightly exasperated at her friend; Amelia had an unfortunate tendency to want desperately to be on the _in_ with the most popular witches and wizards, and would often whine and complain (and order) until Lily finally gave in and went with her to whatever event _anyone who was anyone_ was going to that week. The irony was that after all that complaining, Amelia was far more likely to sit in the corner and not speak to anyone and leave Lily to attempt to make nice with a bunch of strangers. But, Lily had learnt over the years that just _being_ there was what was important to Amelia – and she was a good friend, so it was the last that Lily could do.

She had left Amelia – thoroughly over-dressed (or under-dressed, depending on how you looked at it) with her mother, talking seriously about the pros and cons of the Farrah-flick as if they were single-handedly brokering peace in Northern Ireland. And Lily was pretty sure that a good deal of their conversation would be dedicated to discussing what was wrong with her – something she could do without hearing.

Besides, since Dumbledore had handed her the Prefect's badge that now sat gleaming on her bedside table, little thoughts had started entering her mind. Maybe this year would be different – maybe she would meet some new people, even make some new friends. She was never quite sure why she had never quite fit in with her peers. There were the obvious impediments: she was too clever, for a start, and the first few years of Hogwarts, she had been a little bit of a goodie-goodie.

Nonetheless, she had definitely mellowed since that time – much faster to laugh, more willing to try new things. But, of course, in High School, once peoples' opinions of you were set, they had a tendency of sticking. It was almost as if in First Year, you were divided into your respective groups. There were the James Potters, the Sirius Blacks – and then there were the Amelia Fenwicks, and the Lily Evanses. Maybe that demarcation had begun even earlier than that. When James Potter was born a Potter…when Amelia was born a Fenwick (a wizarding family, but not one of the oldest). Lily paused for a moment, contemplating James.

The whispers had reached her, even here. James had always inspired particularly strong emotions in Lily. They weren't friends. That was a given, she supposed. But they had eased into a sort of entente. She had, the previous year, completely torn him a new one for his merciless teasing of Severus Snape. And while she and Severus were sometimes-friends, she was surprised at how _mad_ James made her.

Maybe it was because they had a tendency of treading on each other's toes – always in the top class, always in direct competition. And during the years Lily had been particularly prideful of her magical abilities, it drove her _crazy_ – knowing that he simply didn't have to try. It was a bit like competing against someone running at half-pace. You never quite knew what standard you had attained if your competition wasn't really trying. It cheapened things. She had hated him for it - and hating James Potter was hardly a good way to start in the social world.

And there was Amelia – who was not particularly good at making new friends.

Basically, all these circumstances had colluded to make Lily's last five years fulfilling, but not necessarily fun. There was a small, uncharitable part of her that imagined that there was something better out there. Her mum had said something similar earlier today. Lily was sitting at the table showing her mother her Divination set when her mother fixed her bright green eyes upon her youngest daughter.

"So. Lily. What is the boy situation?"

It was that horrible question that mothers have to ask every now and again, just to remind make their children vow never to be quite as embarrassing in the future. Her mother regarded her closely, as if unconsciously seeking out the huge defect that had repulsed all the boys at Hogwarts. Failing to see the skin problem, the unsightly growth or squiffy nose that would have justified such a brutal romantic oversight, Lily had the sneaking suspicion that her mother thought she might be gay. Violet Evans had the tendency to ask her daughter about Amelia, in a meaning-laced whatever-makes-you-happy kind of way. That was a pretty disturbing train of thought. Even her father, Robert, with whom she had in the past enjoyed a strict don't-ask-don't-tell approach to boys, was starting to ask uncomfortable questions.

It was with these thoughts running through her mind that she ultimately settled on a modest black dress. She looked at her long red hair in the mirror, dabbed some make up on (she was new to the whole make-up arena as well) and decided that she didn't look too bad.

"What in god's name are you wearing?'

Amelia was blessed with the most nuanced speaking-style.

"A costume from when I played a Mr Mestophales in _Cats_," Lily dead-panned, regarding herself in the mirror. "It's a dress, obviously. What does it look like?"

Amelia shook her head, tsk-ed several times, and then encompassed Lily in a sort of frenzied fashion-hurricane. When she emerged, it seemed that she was wearing about half the clothes she had been and fourteen times the make-up. She gaped at herself in the mirror. She looked, quite simply, like a whore dressed up to go to the opera.

"I didn't realize I was working on a street-corner tonight," she said, dazed.

"Don't be silly – you look fab."

Amelia preened her misshapen bob in the mirror. It probably would have looked chic on a seven-foot tall model, but on short, tubby Amelia, it looked a bit like a pudding had been upended on her head. Of course, Lily would have torn the arms off anyone who suggested that.

Violet Evans appeared at the door to Lily's bedroom. However, if she had been hoping for her mother to supply the voice of reason, she was mistaken. In fact, Violet made her bend over a shimmy to show off her cleavage to full advantage. Amelia and Violet shared a co-conspiratorial look as they ushered Lily to the fireplace (she only had time enough to grab her book before they all but threw her into live flame – luckily she had the foresight to throw some Floo powder in.

_This is going to be a complete and utter ordeal_, Lily thought as the fireplaces flew passed her.

She had no way of knowing it, but tonight she would take her first step towards a collision with destiny.


End file.
